Sherry, my incredible beta reader, put a lot of effort into this chapter. She turned my German-English into something more readable. Thank you so much, Sherry! You are the best!
As for the chapter itself; I'd be bushing in a dark Vulcan green… if I only could. Plz, be kind.
The group had been traveling one day into the desert toward Sterim. The pertus, upon which Spock sat, looked very much like a camel from Earth. He found himself, again, fascinated by the similarities between animals that had totally different genetic backgrounds. Spock deduced that it was because they had developed in analogous environments. The rocking of the pertus and his natural scientific curiosity had distracted him for a time. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by images of Christine. Kanar.
Spock felt a chill from the roots of his hair that spread to the goose bumps along his body. He couldn't quite identify the feeling, but something was amiss and the trepidation that filled him grew stronger with each mile they traveled away from the city. Moral demanded that he go on. The good of the many outweighed the good of the few or the one, but his human side seemed to be screaming within him.
It was wrong! Leaving her behind him was wrong. He could sense something was amiss.
Soon it was time to bivouac. Skillfully the men began to unload a part of the wood that had been brought with them and arranged fireplaces in a large circle. The fire belt should keep away any wild animals that might be tempted to approach at night. In the middle, a tent for Spock and one for Ohlett, and a simple sleeping arrangement for the workers.
Spock had met Ohlett on the first day at Kanar's court. He was young, blundering and full of arrogance that seemed to come natural to him. Ohlett was typical of the ruling caste, but the young man was not stupid. Spock was on good terms with him, for the moment, and had caught the young man openly gawping at him while Spock debated with Kanar. Usually one did not raise a voice against the ruler. One did not disagree or proclaim a differing opinion. Spock's bravery, in Ohlett's eyes, commanded admiration and respect.
Ohlett did not always understand the strange looking man, but in his heart he felt the peaceful, reasonable words held more power to move people and society than brute force. This was a virtually new idea and left the young man with more than a tinge of distress as it unhinged his traditional view of his world.
The desert was silent and after the men's talk had faded, the crackling of the fire was all that remained. Spock lay still, in vain, waiting for his muscles to relax. Sleep eluded him. Uneasily, he turned over on his sandy bed. The flames from the fire were throwing shadows along the sides of his tent. Dancing shapes became pictures. Long, flowing hair poured over him—round sensual shapes danced on top of him. He almost felt Christine's weight along his hip.
She had come to him on the last evening before his trip. Spock had already retreated to bed, waiting for her to leave the bathroom. She took an unusually long time, and Spock had fallen into a gentle sleep. It was her hands that had awakened him.
Christine's long fingers softly caressed his face, following his brows, which had risen with surprise at her initiating touch. She softly glided her fingers along his nose and rested them on his lips.
What was she doing? He was simply too surprised to move. Her index finger played with his lower lip, performing a light pressure to finally glide into his mouth. He allowed her to continue. She touched his tongue. Spock closed his lips around her finger and began to suck, gliding his tongue along her finger. His mouth suddenly had a life of its own.
Christine's other hand began to wander across his bare chest, through the hair there, and then found his nipple. First, she drew wide circles around it, but narrowed with each round. He knew what was coming if the circles finally came to the center and he held his breath. But when she finally pressed the sensitive flesh between thumb and forefinger, he found himself undone.
If his mouth had been his own, he would have taken a sharp breath, but it wasn't his anymore. Her finger still possessed him and was replaced by her lips pressing against his own lips urgently. Spock had no other choice than surrendered to her and he opened his mouth. During all the nights they had spent together, they had never kissed, had never teased each other—had never exchanged tender touches like lovers. Both had always been prudent not to overstep this frontier. They were no lovers! But as her mouth left his, he felt as if he would die of thirst for a second, as if a glass of pure cool water had been taken away from him. He lifted up to find her mouth again, but her hands pressed him back down in the pillows with unexpected strength.
In the room's darkness, Spock couldn't completely see her, but he could make out the curves of her alabaster body against the night. Her face was hidden to him.
Christine sat on top of his stomach and her hands held his forearms tight on both sides. Considering his superior strength, it would have been easy for him to remove her, but he just could not. He was completely caught. She bent over and he felt something soft touching his cheek, something incredibly feminine, while her hair brushed over his shoulders. Finally, she offered his thirsty mouth a new goal—her breast.
Spock began to suck her breast, allowing his tongue to roll in concentric circles across her nipples and aureole just as she had done to his nipple.
He had to hear it—a sharp breath. Taken because of him, because of what his tongue was doing to her nipple. Just as he took it softly between his teeth intending to give her a gentle bite she withdrew herself and sat up again. And it was Spock then who gave a slightly desperate sigh.
Christine pressed her legs stronger against his sides and began with barely recognizable motions to move on his stomach. Her hips circled. He wanted to move his hands, touch those hips and conduct her body away from his belly—deeper—in the direction of his aching erection. He was so hard that he throbbed against her backside.
She would not allow it—Christine reared up her upper body, stretched it backwards and her hands found hold on his thighs. He placed his hands on her hips, and he had pressed them into her flesh in an urgency that should have colored his face dark green, but she withdrew from him again and his hands grabbed only air this time. She moved back up to sit on him.
Spock wasn't allowed to find the time to be embarrassed by his own shamelessness. He felt her weight on his groin just beneath his testicles. Her hands caressed his waist where she had sat earlier. She played with his hair and in the pale moonlight he saw how it glistened with wetness.
Slowly, Christine's fingers ran through it, and Spock realized with pleasure that it was he who had caused this arousal. She leaned forward again, allowing her pubis to touch his balls as if by accident while she offered him her finger again. He took it in, tasting her.
This was too much! The smell—the taste of her wetness on his tongue, her arousal in his mouth broke some type of ban. Something instinctive took control. No logical or rational thought could have stopped him now.
Spock grabbed Christine and turned her onto her back. Her laughter sounded bright as bells in his ears. He looked down at her and from his throat came a deep animal growl. A primary instinct, something that was ancestral Vulcan had broken free and found its way to the surface of its consciousness. When he invaded her with impetuousness, her nails were scratching down his back. The sweet pain he felt ignited even more passion in him.
He kissed her, nibbled on her earlobe, and took away her breath. Their two bodies were melted into one. She ran her fingers through his thick black hair, pulled his head back and licked playfully along his neck. He was shaved, but the stubbles of the new day had already appeared. She rubbed her face at his check, his rawness, his masculinity, all while he entered her with firm thrusts over and over.
Christine was seeking his hardness and angularity, and he was bathing in her femaleness. He was drawn to her curves magically. Spock buried his face between her breasts, while he was buried between her legs. He fondled her velvet skin like he was intoxicated.
When he finally exploded in her, she held him firmly embraced with her legs and pulled him down deeper into her. He looked into her face. She was smiling like a satisfied cat that had eaten a bowl of cream.
Finally, she cuddled against his body and, after what seemed like an eternity, he fell asleep.
In the morning, he set out on his trip, silently. He was without words—and couldn't rationalize to himself what had happened. Before he left, he had checked on her, and had been shocked at the traces he had left on her body. Christine Chapel was smiling in her sleep but Spock was thunderstruck.
Tonight, he still saw the images of that night—as pictures of shadow and fire on the canvas of his tent, dancing in front of his eyes. Tempting light and terrifying shadows….and the vague silhouette of a man slinking towards his tent.